All Tomorrow’s Memories

By Jackie Weger

After her own family is shattered, Willa Manning answers a plea from her adopted daughter's biological grandparents to share in the life of their only grandchild.

Her own health in unexpected jeopardy, Willa sells all she owns, and in a risky leap of faith moves cross-country to meet the couple. She soon finds herself reckoning with feelings for the acerbic, idiosyncratic attorney who brought them together.

He doesn't trust her motives. She doesn't trust his. Willa determines every inch of give and take must secure her daughter's future. Success will be on her terms and none other. The attorney is about to find this out the hard way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Written Musings
• Release date: Nov 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781945143687

Book preview

Chapter 1

The sun bore down with a yellow shimmer of languid haze, hot and bright upon a city touted as the oldest in the United States. Willa felt moisture beading between her palm and her daughter’s, caused more by nerves than humidity.

I want to see the Oldest Wooden Schoolhouse, Bethany insisted, quoting verbatim from the tourist guide Willa had read to her the night before. You promised.

We will, sweetie, but first I have to talk to someone. Afterward, okay?

How much afterward? Bethany exploited appeasement with the instinctive skill of a five-year-old.

Willa’s heart contracted. After I’ve gotten our lives in order. But that was no answer for a child.

Right afterward, she said, and smiled. She had learned her lesson well. Being a psychologist held no weight in the face of motherhood. Objectivity simply did not exist.

Satisfied for the moment, Bethany skipped along at her mother’s side.

In front of a beige Victorian house facing Matanzas Bay, Willa tugged Bethany aside, allowing a large and cheerful family of children, parents and grandparents to pass.

Willa envied the family its gaiety. Even more, she envied its unity and togetherness. Her own family was shattered and undone by death and happenstance. Sleep often eluded her while thoughts and emotions and hope were skewed by fear and apprehension.

For the hundredth time, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. Questioning if a journey rife with tragedy and mischance could somehow turn out right. So much could go wrong. Or, her greatest fear—what she was doing for Bethany could be wrong on all fronts.

She longed to sit on one of the benches on the bayfront and let the rippling waters seep into her psyche, easing painful recall, but Bethany had no interest in sitting still. She held tight to her daughter’s hand as they moved forward, toward an uncertain future.

She doubted the people she was here to meet would be uncivil, but dozens of questions lurked in the shadows of her mind, all of which would have to be answered before she could make a decision that would affect Bethany for the rest her life. Not to mention her own.

The first line in the city’s visitors’ guide had stayed with her. Change is an ingredient from which history is made. Perhaps she was making a bit of history for herself and Bethany. Still, change was scary and she felt like someone grasping for a rope that dangled just out of reach.

Recall of her life before it collapsed made her throat tighten. Her mother dying after a long, painful illness and weeks in hospice. Her beloved husband’s sudden death of an exploding aneurysm while sitting in his car in their own driveway on a bright winter morning. Discovering him still haunted her.

She often dreamed of Peter. She’d be adjusting his tie, or see her arms around him running her hands over his back, feeling the smoothness of his ironed shirt, and suddenly he’d disintegrate in her arms. She’d awake, whimpering like a puppy and next, worried that Bethany heard her cry out.

She loved and trusted her dad and depended upon him for emotional support. Yet his interest was elsewhere when she needed him most. Even worse was his insensitivity toward Bethany, a child who had suffered more losses in her short life than any five-year-old should have to endure. The angst she could not bury at death’s door seeped around that memory.

Bethany deserved to have roots, a continuity of family—continuity that Peter’s family, and what remained of Willa’s own, were not willing or could not provide. Yet, she understood her dad’s behavior. He’d been wholly devoted as caregiver to her mother those last hard years. His grief and fatigue fused with a relief he was reluctant to admit. She didn’t think it fair to gainsay any happiness that came his way. She just wished it could’ve included his granddaughter.

Bethany tugged on Willa’s hand. Why are we stopping, Mommy? Are we lost again?

Willa managed a laugh. Not this time. At least, I hope not. Willa checked the brass number plate on a door against the business card she removed from her pocket. We’re right on target. Now I want you on your best behavior, okay?

I know— Bethany groaned. Be quiet and don’t interrupt grown-ups. I don’t get it why little kids have to be quiet all of the time. If I don’t talk, I can’t make friends. I don’t have any friends now. Not one.

You’re going to make new friends soon, Willa said with false cheer, as much to boost her own courage as to dampen the sense of unease that plagued her since leaving Kansas. Anyway, you don’t have to be quiet all of the time, just some of the time.

Some of the time is all of the time, Bethany muttered. If you’d let me, I’d scream noise. I’d scream so loud the sun would break.

Willa let the teaching moment about manners pass and instead did the motherly thing. She let her daughter have the last word. She glanced once more at the business card and inhaled. Here we go, she thought.

The entrance hall in the building was dim and only a few degrees cooler than outside. Willa pushed her sunglasses atop her head and stopped for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust. To her left was the door to a souvenir shop, closed. At the far end of the hall, a velvet rope barred access to an upstairs art gallery. To her right, was an open door. A small sign beside the door announced the offices of Nicholas Cavenaugh, Attorney-at-Law. Willa’s heart picked up speed, threatening to drive right into her stomach.

A single thought rushed through her mind: It’s not too late to back out. The attorney need never know she’d been here. But even as she considered retreat, her feet carried her forward to the threshold of the office.

A man was seated at a solid U-shaped receptionist’s desk, hunched over a computer as he pecked at the keyboard. He wore black, thick-rimmed glasses which seemed not to benefit him at all as he watched his fingers hunt for keys. His tie hung loose and his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows. A pale pink shirt. She always thought a man had to have a good sense of self to wear pink. In profile his features were distinctive, his nose a bit long, balanced by a beard-shadowed square jaw and full lips that hinted at an easy smile, though at the moment they were compressed in concentration. He had dark hair prone to curl.

Before he sensed their presence, Willa considered the most striking thing about the man was his intensity.

Hello, she said, her voice an octave higher than normal.

He glanced up, then returned his gaze to his work. The souvenir shop and gallery are closed until the air-conditioner is repaired. He voiced the information as if by rote, his irritation obvious.

We need— Willa began.

No public restrooms here, either, lady. His gaze did not stray from the text on the computer. Try the Welcome Center in the next block.

We should do just that, Willa thought. Just turn and go—but there was no retracing her path home. She and Bethany had no home. She’d sold it. Besides, the man’s discourtesy made her temper flare. She had not uprooted her life and driven hundreds of miles to be dismissed out of hand.

I’m Willa Manning, here to see—

His head jerked up. He lifted his glasses to peer at her while a raft of expressions moved across his features. She registered the expressions as surprise, curiosity and—disdain? Oh, no. It was going to be disastrous. Willa could sense it. She had done the wrong thing.

She tightened her grasp on Bethany’s hand even as she suffered his brusque, brief assessment. The yellow cotton shift she wore was a simple affair, sleeveless, buttoned down the front, belted at the waist and falling modestly below her knees. The trim lines of the dress served to emphasize the length of her legs; the straps of her sandals enhancing her well-shaped ankles. Willa knew she looked nice, if a bit severe with only a dash of lipstick and her hair pulled into a neat twist atop her head. She wanted to appear serious and straightforward in this first meeting.

Bethany hadn’t balked at wearing soft cotton shorts and a Tee, but had insisted overlaying them with her pink net tutu left over from dance class, her pink polka-dotted sun shades and her purple Blue Fairy backpack. Her wild cinnamon-colored curls were held away from her piquant little face with a pair of pink barrettes. Bethany looked like just what she was, a cute, independent five-year-old, but there was no welcome in the man’s face toward Bethany, either.

He rose to his feet. Standing, he dwarfed the desk. Mrs. Manning, you’re early by five days.

I know. In spite of the annoyance in his tone, Willa gave him a tentative smile. But, I have a job interview next Monday. Our appointments overlap. I was hoping… She placed a protective hand on Bethany’s shoulder. The gesture caused him to shift his gaze. Willa watched him study Bethany with the same whole-minded concentration he had applied to his typing. When his gaze shifted to Willa again, she noted his eyes were as gray as storm clouds and rimmed with curly dark lashes. "You are Nicholas Cavenaugh?"

Didn’t I say that?

No, you didn’t and I’ve learned not to make assumptions.

Really? So you’re Willa Manning. He made the redundant observation as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

I’m Bethany, the child announced.

The cautious look in Nicholas Cavenaugh’s gray eyes lifted. You’re a lovely girl, Bethany, just like your mother, right down to the dimples in your cheeks.

Bethany beamed, but the words flicked across Willa like the lash of a whip. In speaking of Bethany’s mother, Cavenaugh had not meant her. That meant…he must’ve known Bethany’s biological mother.

Willa had a sudden chilling thought. Paternity had never been established. Cavenaugh could be the father. Had she been tricked in some horrible way? She glared at Nicholas Cavenaugh, horror-struck. How much older was he than Bethany’s birth mother? Ten years? Fifteen? Scenario after scenario burst into Willa’s mind. Not one of them seemed impossible. She had to stop him before he said anything more in front of Bethany.

Thank you, she said, lips drawn tight, eyes flashing a warning.

She watched understanding dawn upon him. I didn’t mean—

I know exactly what you meant. You’ve already breached our agreement.

Are you the person Mommy has to see? Bethany asked.

There was a sense of tension in the way his gaze darted from mother to child, but he managed to smile once again at Bethany. Willa’s tension lessened, but not by much.

I guess I am.

Okay, we’ve seen you. Can we go now, Mommy? Bethany turned her dimples on Nicholas Cavenaugh. "I’m just dying to see the Oldest Wooden Schoolhouse."

Nicholas Cavenaugh adjusted the roll of his sleeves. It’s too hot to conduct business in here. What do you say we all go for a walk down to the park? You can play on the swings while I chat with your mother. He looked to see if this was acceptable to Willa.

Willa nodded. She wanted out of the hot, airless office. She wanted space so that she and Bethany could escape at the first opportunity. She needed to rethink this entire situation.

Bethany was not so easily swayed. Swings and playgrounds were too ordinary to compete with the adventure of school, which some days she longed to attend and other days not. How long will that take?

Only a few minutes, and there’s a doughnut shop on the way.

I like doughnuts. Do they have chocolate-covered?

Hundreds.

Bethany looked at her mother. How many can I have?

One, Willa said.

While the attorney closed his office, she and Bethany waited in the foyer of the building.

Once he joined them, Willa avoided every stiff attempt at conversation the attorney made. At the doughnut shop, she refused his offer of a cool drink and made a statement of buying her own bottle of water. At least, she hoped it was a statement. He seemed indifferent as she paid for it.

With each step toward the park she rued the impulsive streak that prompted her to say and do things that were so at war with her practical instincts. Had she been practical, she would have tried to rebuild their lives in Kansas City. But the letter from the Elliotts, those strangers linked to Bethany by circumstances she had never foreseen, made her think about new horizons. She had talked herself into taking a risk.

There was a scar on her soul. She wanted healing. She had felt her spirits soar as she was driving away from her father’s farm. His new wife was glad to see them go. The farther south she drove, the more she saw this new undertaking as an adventure. When she crossed the state line into Florida, she had for a few moments felt positively giddy.

Bethany, too, had become more animated. She’d chattered away, exhibiting an energy Willa would not have believed without having seen it for herself, chasing after butterflies and squirrels at every rest stop. Except at night when they stopped at Interstate motels. Bethany insisted upon sleeping with Willa, as if fearful she would be snatched away in the dark.

So all right. If Nicholas Cavenaugh’s attitude was a foreshadowing of what she might expect from the Elliotts, it wasn’t the end of the world. She had embarked in a new direction and would not turn back. If push came to shove, she would refuse a job offer in St. Augustine and search for work farther up or down the coast. Yet, that would still leave her in a boatload of trouble and an uncertain future for Bethany.

That’s where we live now, Bethany said around a mouthful of doughnut when they strolled past the motel in which she and her mother had spent the night.

Nicholas glanced at Willa, raised an eyebrow, then sipped coffee from his paper cup.

I took the room for a couple of weeks, Willa said, breaking her self-imposed silence.

Until something better comes along? The sarcasm was light, but there. Willa stiffened. She had a pithy retort ready, but Bethany had big ears and a memory too sharply honed for a five-year-old. Willa held her tongue until they were at the park where, after a hesitant moment, Bethany took off her book bag and hurried to join with other children on the monkey bars.

She and Nicholas Cavenaugh sat opposite one another at a picnic table in the shade of a moss-draped live oak. All of Willa’s bottled-up tension and apprehension erupted.

"Listen, Mr. Cavenaugh, nothing—and I mean, nothing!—is to be said around Bethany that will hurt or confuse her in any way. She understands she’s adopted. But it’s just a word to her. She hasn’t absorbed the exact or literal meaning. She knows nothing about the circumstances surrounding her birth. She isn’t yet prepared for that. I won’t tolerate any more slips like the one you made earlier. That was unconscionable."

Her hands were trembling. She put them in her lap lest he notice and guess how nervous and frightened she felt. She stared hard at the angles and planes of his face, superimposing them over the beloved face of her daughter. Both had dark curly hair. Otherwise, she could find no likeness.

Point taken, Nicholas replied, expression impassive, though Willa thought he appeared disturbed by her outburst.

Nicholas Cavenaugh was a mass of raw nerves. Willa Manning had caught him off guard. The years-old grainy newspaper photograph he had of her most certainly did not do her justice. Angst put color on her patrician features and when she lifted her sun shades, he saw the deepened blue of her eyes until they gleamed almost purple. She had the graceful appearance of a magazine model but only if one ignored the monumental consternation gripping her features.

The slight breeze had wind-whipped her hair, loosening strands from the knot on her head just enough to give her a tousled, just-out-of-bed look. Appealing. He felt a microscopic thrall of the oldest rhythms in his nether regions. Another glance at her expression and thralldom evaporated. The woman had ice in her veins and a frown that would scare sharks.

He had warned the Elliotts that Willa Manning was an unknown and had pressed for caution, but Claudine Elliott had been adamant that she would meet her granddaughter. Never mind that the child had been adopted.

Discovering that their daughter, Susan, had borne a child had been like a miracle to Claudine. She was positive that God had heard her prayers and was giving her a second chance. It had been less than two months now since Susan, who had long been buried as a Jane Doe in a pauper’s grave, had been brought home and interred in the Elliott family plot.

Nicholas was certain the Manning woman was aware of Claudine’s feelings. Her unannounced early arrival could well have been calculated to take advantage of the Elliotts’ grief, which meant he’d have to stay on his professional toes to protect them. He owed John and Claudine that much.

I want more than ‘point taken’, Willa insisted. "I want your word. I want what we agreed upon. I make the decision about when, if, Bethany is to be told who her natural mother was and who the Elliotts are."

I’m not in the habit of having my integrity questioned, Mrs. Manning. May I remind you that you arrived in my office five days early? You’ve heard of the telephone, haven’t you? Emails? You could’ve alerted me. At any rate, I would not have expected you to have the child with you at our first meeting.

Willa gave him a pitying look. I could hardly leave her unsupervised and alone in a motel room in a strange town, today—or next week. Tell me something about the Elliotts. What kind of people are they?

Nice, caring people, a bit old-fashioned. Wealthy, of course. He dispensed a smile, not genuine. But you know that.

Anger flashed. Willa’s eyes appeared darker and deeper set. Wealth doesn’t have anything to do with it. I’m not here for money, for myself or for Bethany. We’re situated well enough. You know that. I refused the offer of travel expenses, of gifts—

An adroit move on your part.

Is that what the Elliotts think? Do you? If so, why search for us? Why forward me this?

She snapped her purse open, snatched the letter and unfolded it.

Please, Mrs. Manning, she read with trembling voice, …allow us to see Bethany. Just see her. We want to assure you again that we’ll make no challenge to your custody of Bethany, but she’s the only link to our Susan. We like to think that, had Susan lived, she would have brought her daughter home. Bethany is our grandchild. She’s of our blood. Please come to St. Augustine. We want to help you with Bethany, any way you’ll let us. You can set any rules for the visit you like. We’ll abide by them. Just let us see our granddaughter. Our hearts ache.

In spite of herself, Willa was moved again by the letter. She glared at Nicholas Cavenaugh. This is why I’ve brought Bethany. This letter tore at my heart. But I don’t suppose a crass attorney understands heartfelt emotions.

Refolding the letter, a nasty thought struck Willa. Suppose the letter had been designed to do just what it had done—get Bethany to Florida? Suppose the Elliotts were co-conspirators with Cavenaugh? Suppose they knew he was Bethany’s natural father? No amount of investigation by her own attorney could have discovered that. She had only questioned the Elliotts’ motives and their letter had satisfied that question. It had not occurred to her to question Cavenaugh’s. She had thought him little more than the Elliotts’ spokesperson, as bipartisan as her own attorney—a go-between.

A thought flashed. Cavenaugh had had plenty of time to make a phone call while she and Bethany waited for him outside his office. The Elliotts could have already filed for custody of Bethany here in Florida. They could’ve just been waiting for her to set foot in Florida. For all she knew, Cavenaugh might have someone lurking nearby to slap her with a subpoena, ordering her into court.

She might have made a huge mistake. It could cost her Bethany.

Well, she wasn’t the type to sit idly by while Fate grabbed her by the throat and had its way with her. Cavenaugh might as well know that. In one fluid movement she returned the letter to her purse, snatched Bethany’s book bag, slipped away from the table and called to her daughter.

Nicholas was fast on his feet. Hey! Wait a minute! Where’re you going?

I don’t like having my integrity questioned either. You can tell the Elliotts I’ve changed my mind. Goodbye, Mr. Cavenaugh. You’ll forgive me if I don’t say it’s been a pleasure meeting you.

Wait! Please—

I don’t think so. You’ve left ordinary courtesies too late. The stunned expression he wore satisfied Willa to no end, though she sensed his